


Options Open

by tealvenetianmask



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, References to Suicide, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealvenetianmask/pseuds/tealvenetianmask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittersweet early relationship sheriarty, set in a slight AU in which events on the roof went differently and The Fall (of both) was narrowly avoided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Options Open

Sherlock awoke as Jim’s weight shifted, and the arm that had been draped over him lifted off. As he opened his eyes and looked around, the room came back to him. Light from between the window shades: morning, and rather early at that. 

“Well good morning to you too.” Jim was sitting up on the bed next to him, his hair matted and mussed, this satisfied smirk on his face, this yes, of course you’re still here. Taking time to get used to things is boring.

Sherlock sat up, pushing sheets aside. He shook his head. This was still happening, this— Jim’s fingertips pressed to his chest, too lightly to force him down, but of course he leaned back until his head settled on the pillow, because it was Jim. “Go back to sleep.” 

Jim’s lips brushed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and then in a moment Jim was up, moving about the room, pulling on shorts, his weight gone from the bed. Sherlock propped himself back up on an elbow to get a good look at this man, this puzzle, this—His? There was something lovely in his slight frame, the curve of his back. Bruises scattered, Sherlock’s doing, red on that spot on his neck where Sherlock had bit down hard, for the sake of surprise, and Jim had cried out, the sound more pleasure than pain. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock blinked, his eyes still adjusting to the light.

“Making you breakfast,” Jim grinned and his wide eyes seemed to shine as they caught the light. Gold, in sunlight, Sherlock remembered. “It’ll be the best fucking breakfast of your life. And I mean to surprise you. So stay put.”

His voice was smooth with a trace of rasp, pulling Sherlock’s senses hypnotically back to last night. 

Sherlock tried his best to stop grinning and look skeptical. “You, cooking? I seriously doubt you have the patience for that sort of thing. I know I never do.”

“I’m good at everything,” Jim said brightly. 

But Sherlock caught the way that Jim rolled his eyes right after saying it. As if to say fuck being good at everything. And then in a few long strides he was out the door, and Sherlock could hear him walking down the stairs—quickly, steadily, with purpose, not dressed, not really. 

The thought of Jim bustling around the kitchen in his shorts and probably burning a few food items was really quite appealing. Sherlock imagined getting up in a few minutes, once the stove was warmed up, and making his way silently down the stairs. He’d wait until Jim was busy with something and then he’d wrap his arms around the smaller man from behind, hands trailing along his abdomen, and maybe whisper something unsettling. I know all about the next bombing you have planned, based on what’s missing from your bookshelf… He’d give Jim something more interesting to think about than preparing a meal. Spending time on food was never really worth the effect, anyway.

Sherlock rolled over on his side, and with that movement he noticed the soreness. The proof of what happened. Beautiful, terrible soreness. The gun, the roof, what he was certain had almost happened—they were just putting it off. Facing all that. And in spite of what had just changed, whatever had changed, the thought of moving in any direction terrified him.

_______________________________________________________________________ 

Jim had whispered the address into Sherlock’s ear on the roof, just before turning and leaving him there alone. Jim practically cringed as he said it; he was barely keeping himself together. The cologne he was wearing stirred something in Sherlock, while they were still so close, a touch of cinnamon, catching on the wind’s chill. And then he was gone.

Sherlock managed to sneak out of the hospital after evening fell, through the emergency room. He told himself he was going to Jim because he had nowhere else to go. But of course, he’d arranged things with Molly… there was still the plan, to get out of London and into hiding. But leaving London seemed overwhelming considering he was already having trouble wrapping his mind around the game being over—won? Lost? Called off? And then there was Jim still, waiting for him now, alone. Jim Moriarty was always alone, that was the thing.

The look on his face when he opened the door. Intelligent eyes, looking, searching, conscious of being seen. He stepped aside to let Sherlock in, and then Sherlock saw it, the gun he’d known was in Jim’s coat earlier, lying on the table, on top of yesterday’s newspaper, still loaded. “Why are you here?” Jim asked. 

There was something hollow about his voice still, but it seemed he’d regained his composure, since earlier, though with Jim he never really could tell. Once inside he watched Jim retreat to the couch. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, hair a bit messy, free of product. He’d showered, since the afternoon, but nothing he wore was striking: he hadn’t dressed for Sherlock to see him. “You didn’t expect me to come,” Sherlock said, as he hung up his coat by the door.

“No, I suppose I didn’t. You had an escape plan.” 

No intonation, no sadness, nothing. All walls back up. This wasn’t what Sherlock wanted, not now that the game was over.

Sherlock sat down next to Jim on the couch and hesitated before reaching out and pressing his hand to Jim’s lower arm, which rested on his lap. Touch might break down the mask. Touch held a certain importance for Jim, an importance that Sherlock had always deemed a weakness in other people. It wasn’t that Sherlock always avoided touch, but he usually thought it foolish to be excessively affected by it. But that didn’t account for the jolt deep in his chest he’d felt when he realized on the roof what his touch, his, specifically was for Jim. Jim whose mind he liked to think was very much like his own.

When Sherlock spoke, he kept his voice low and soft, “What was the gun for, Jim?”

Sherlock could hear Jim breathing. He was that close. Jim’s arm slid up, and his hand grasped Sherlock’s, fingers intertwined, holding tight, Sherlock’s hand now brushing Jim’s upper leg. “The gun was an option.”

“Not for me though. That’s not a way you’d kill me.”

“No. Not for you,” Jim nodded, his face serious, still, contained.

“For you. You were ready to do it.. if you hadn’t changed your mind—” Sherlock exhaled slowly, the pieces coming together. Clearer, but not better… not at all. 

Jim raised his eyebrows and shook his head a bit. “I’m really feeling inclined to lie to you, Sherlock, if you don’t know by now… But the truth is I’m done, and I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t think I’m trying to spare you the gory details of how exactly I feel about living. I’m just not in the mood to describe it. But believe me when I say I’m done.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes now fixed on Jim. The man’s ability to talk about the end of his own life without so much as a shudder. It wasn’t emotional control, or stoicism. It was total surrender to the idea. “You didn’t end it on the roof, for either of us. Why?”

“I noticed an opportunity. For something out of the ordinary.”

Jim’s lips quirked up. A hint of a smile.

“And that’s why you invited me here. The opportunity involves me.”

Jim closed his eyes for a moment and grinned widely. “You gathered that, did you?” He released Sherlock’s hand. “Can I try something?”

“Depends on what.”

And within a moment, Jim had moved close—very close, and he was moving his hand slowly, very slowly over Sherlock’s shoulder, making little circles with his thumb. “How about this?” 

Sherlock watched Jim’s face. The little movements, from time to time around his eyes, poorly concealed nerves. Of course. Touch. “That’s perfectly alright.”

“Good.”

Jim’s leaned closer, and Sherlock could smell him again- not a cologne this time, just him, warm and human. A hint of soap. And then with the slightest touch, Jim’s lips on his earlobe. This was all a bit much to process. Sherlock laughed, lightly, as if that would stop his heart from beating so fast. “You’re trying to seduce me, Jim? Now? You just told me you want to die.”

Jim didn’t back away, but just looked at him, his lips curling into the gentlest of smirks, and then he moved down and nuzzled his head a bit again the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “If it’s working I think I’ll continue.”

Sherlock sat, immobile, as Jim undid the top button to his shirt and (was there even warning? How did he miss the warning?) licked his collarbone with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock gasped, and before he knew what he was doing, he placed two fingers under Jim’s chin, and raised his head. And then they were kissing, and he felt as if raw electricity were running between them. There really was no backing out after that. 

His thoughts came through chopped up in bits, through it all, spurred and interrupted by Jim’s touch and his breathing. Frantic and awkward at moments, tender at others. Grabbing and nipping and sucking. And those sounds Jim made. Those sounds that he so clearly wanted Sherlock to hear. It was over, for both of them, faster than he’d started to hope.

Sherlock lay awake for a while after, trying to figure out how to lay comfortably with Jim’s leg hooked around his waist. Being clung to for dear life: this must be what it feels like, he thought.

_______________________________________________________________________

He gathered his clothes from around the room, but hesitated to get dressed, because this didn’t have to be the end. Because as far as anyone knew he was missing, in hiding, probably. There wasn’t any reason not to spend the day here. Spend time with Jim, maybe have another round. If Sherlock could just get himself less flustered and better coordinated, Jim might have an even better time out of it. The thought of it sped Sherlock’s heartbeat. 

He dressed anyway and went downstairs. From the smell, it seemed that Jim really did sometimes cook. Eggs and bacon. Not something you’d expect a person to have around on the day they might die, if they weren’t in the habit of it.

“Hidden talents,” Sherlock said as he stepped into the kitchen.

Jim turned around to face him, and Sherlock watched his face carefully. Annoyed or pleased that he’d left the bed? 

“You never do what you’re told, do you? Stay in bed, I said… let me surprise you… It’s all gone to waste now.” And he was smiling. Pleased then.

Sherlock shook his head. “There’s too much I don’t know about you, Jim.”

“Things you’d like to know?”

“I didn’t even believe that you cook… I thought I was better.”

Jim was right by him with one long step. Hand to Sherlock’s side, low on his waist. Touch had changed between them so quickly.

“Jim, I don’t want you to die. Are you— are we?”

Jim pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, and there were tears in his eyes, Sherlock could see. That was answer enough. As he returned the kiss, he started to smell burning. The bacon. And even though it had been far too long since he had eaten; he was truly hungry, he couldn’t be bothered. Apparently Jim agreed, at least on that.

“I’m dying, and soon,” Jim said, as soon as their lips parted, “I see two options, as far as you’re concerned. I imagine you see them too.”

“You might as well tell me.”

Because I get things wrong, when it comes to you. Don’t let me get this one wrong. He let that part fall silent.

“I can destroy you. I can pull you down with me, or you can take your life back. My computer’s upstairs. Once you guess my password you can find the systems I hacked into and do what you said you would.. Kill Richard Brook. Bring back Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. Though I’ll warn you—you’ll find a few people on your way who are a bit more difficult to reprogram than computers.”

Sherlock pressed his hands to Jim’s arms, either side of him. Of course he’d engrained the change in more than computers. This brilliant, broken man…

“Go on. Right up the stairs. There’s an office across from my room.”

“I’m not going anywhere..” Sherlock blinked. Tears coming… unacceptable. He wasn’t used to crying, and it certainly wasn’t dignified. “I want a third option. I’m demanding a third option.”

Sherlock pulled Jim closer and they held each other, in hiatus or limbo, for as long as they dared to stay.


End file.
